BOILING POINT

At the corner shop. A discarded Wet Paint sign. Morning must have finished its colouring in. A man in a boiler suit frantically scratches at a scratch card. He looks at boiling point. He sighs and buys another. I buy tea and leave, scratching my head. I'm off to boil my kettle.

PARCHED

Heat waits in a clear sky, above a parched land. I embrace cool air as a long-lost friend. I water my colourful plants with a hose. It works better under pressure than me. The plants and I know we'd both wilt without one other. We take only what we need and not a drop more.

MAD DOGS AND ENGLISHMEN

The overnight heat was just the warm-up act for today's sun. Everyone's in shorts, like primary school, albeit with questionable tattoos, cleaner faces and hairier legs. The corner shop's out of ice and ice-cream. Not cool. This Englishman walks his mad dog before the midday sun.

HOURGLASS

A sense of a promise of impending, arid heat. Birds hop and flit in an effort to finish early. The cool grass accepts it'll soon be straw. A tiny water feature will be an oasis for the tiny traveller. The mirage of time is broken as the desert sand in the hourglass returns home.

SILENT NIGHTCLUB

My heavy bedroom curtains resemble a pair of thick-set bouncers in my own silent nightclub. The edge of youthful light fails to sneak past unnoticed and is stopped at the entrance. Mingling birdsong thirsts for the day. 

Light and sound convince me to put on my dancing shoes.

THURSDAY

Thursday is a day alone. Friday associates with Saturday and Sunday. Monday revels in its infamy. Tuesday is popular because it's not Monday. Wednesday knows it's halfway to greatness. Thursday just gets on with itself. I like Thursday. Unprepossessing, but happy in its own skin.

REFLECTIONS OF A FALLEN LEAF

This leaf, like art, is most subjective

This one makes me feel reflective

It grew green once upon the tree

It now lays in this gallery.

REFLECTIONS

My dog gives his singular I NEED A WEE bark. I open the back door. He sits and stares. I encourage him to go out. He refuses. Perhaps I'm not Dr Doolittle. He listens. He stares. I do the same. We both silently reflect upon the outside world. A brief moment. No need for language.

RECYCLING

Flags still flutter in my street but move with all the grace and energy of a lunchtime stripper. The rain makes grass blush bright green. Sunday makes Monday tidy up. A beer bottle is definitely half empty. A garden chair stays upended. A pizza box waits proudly for recycling.

DÉJÀ VU

Overnight rain mingles with a sense of déjà vu

Hope is stuffed into a

hopelessly small and tattered suitcase

Until the next time

A ticket for its destination

Homeward bound 

Lost luggage on a carousel of dreams

Lost property

Unclaimed baggage

Properly lost

Again.